


safe

by byrd_the_amazin



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Gen, and these kids need a safe place so badly, medda's theater is a safe place, no romantic relationships just Found Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 18:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12989949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byrd_the_amazin/pseuds/byrd_the_amazin
Summary: Medda's theater was a safe place.





	safe

**Author's Note:**

> hello hi howdy i know i told y'all i was back and then i vanished for several business weeks
> 
> sorry bout that
> 
> i'm here! and if y'all want to see a specific pairing next, let a bird know and /tell me/ so i know what i should be working on next
> 
> ready for a sappy explanation for this???? ofc you are 
> 
> this is just a little fic 
> 
> probably not my best work
> 
> but it's not a shippy thing and it's not romantic 
> 
> at least not by the world's standards
> 
> but this little fic is a love letter to the theater, because honestly i wouldn't be here today without that wonderful magical thing called theater
> 
> it literally saved my life which is dramatic but the absolute truth 
> 
> so this is my thank you to the stage
> 
> not my best work 
> 
> but sentimental and sappy 
> 
> here goes nothing
> 
> -byrd

Everyone knew that Medda’s theater was a safe place.

It was rundown and old (Medda called it _well-loved_ ), with peeling paint and squeaky seats and a lighting system that could be described as _moderately functional_ at best. The curtains were patched oddly from so many repair jobs over so many years, and the stage was littered with scratches and gouges and scuff marks and old, peeling pieces of tape from shows past.

Despite all this, the theater still put out award-winning shows each season, cranking out musicals and plays that brought massive audiences to fill the squeaky seats and watch the patched and frayed curtains rise over the scraped, scarred stage.

And it was a safe place. Medda was kind-hearted and understanding, and she’d seen her share of all the shit that the world had to offer. She didn’t ask prying questions when kids showed up on the doorstep looking for a job or a place to hide or rest or sleep, and there was almost always an open back room for someone to crash in if things at home weren’t ideal at the moment, whether they were in one of her casts or on her crew or one of her Jack’s friends.

She’d first met Jack Kelly when he had appeared in the door of her theater and asked if she had anything for him to do. She’d thought about it, looking around, and then asked if he had any artistic skills. That had been when he was eight.

Nine years later, he was still a regular at the theater after school, painting sets or chatting with the cast and crew or filling in a role when someone was out. He was easy-going and friendly, and everyone loved him. He made people feel more comfortable simply by _being_ there, and Medda marveled at the change from a terrified third grader with a hard home life shakily painting his first set for her to _this,_ a confident, smiling young man who radiated happiness and _light._

Jack brought friends to Medda all the time, speaking the same words each time to reassure them. “This is Medda. This is a safe place.”

The first time he’d ever brought someone, it was a kid with bruises on their face who smelled like cigarettes, even though Medda doubted the kid smoked.

“Medda,” Jack had called, and Medda turned from where she had been showing a new crew member the ropes.

“Jack,” she greeted him cheerfully. “And who is this?”

The kid hesitated, and Medda let them take their time, because she understood. She knew just how much the world could hurt, and she knew that sometimes it was easiest to just keep that hurt inside, no matter how much pain it caused.

When the silence became too much to bear, she offered, “You could give me a nickname?”

The kid nodded. “Race.”

“Race here’s got a situation,” Jack said. “Any rooms open?”

“You know where they are,” Medda said warmly. “Stay as long as you like, kid.”

As Jack steered Race away, Medda heard Race ask, “Is it really safe here?”

“Safe as life,” Jack replied. “She’s neutral ground. They can’t get to you in here.”

Medda didn’t actually ever find out what Race’s situation was, exactly, but she didn’t ask questions. She just opened her doors to anyone and everyone who needed it and let them figure out their shit on their own, only stepping in if absolutely necessary.

Race had stayed a few days, just long enough for the bruises to fade somewhat, and then left with a quiet nod of thanks to Medda one afternoon in the middle of rehearsals.                     

The next person Jack brought in had a pair of forearm crutches that literally seemed to be the only things holding the kid up aside from Jack’s arm, wound around the kid’s shoulders.

“Crutch, this is Medda,” Jack murmured. “Medda, this is Crutchie. He got roughed up on the street, and we’re going to the back.”

Crutchie looked _terrible,_ with a black eye and a nose that was dripping blood onto his shirt. One of his legs was twisted awkwardly at the knee so that the foot didn’t quite reach the ground, and both hands were swollen around the handles of his crutches- Medda suspected at least two broken fingers on each hand.

“First aid kit is on the wall beside the sound board,” Medda called.

“Thanks, Medda.” Jack led Crutchie away, and Medda turned back to the stage.

“Well?” she prompted, and the actors onstage, who had previously been gaping at Medda’s boy Jack bringing in a refugee who looked like he’d been through hell and back hurriedly got back to the scene they’d been rehearsing.

After Crutchie, there was Specs, a kid who had just been in the wrong place in the wrong time and needed to fix their glasses.

When Jack went to find someone to help them find tape, the stage manager glared at them, unimpressed. “I’ve got duct tape, masking tape, gaff tape, blocking tape, and scotch tape. You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Be nice,” Medda commanded, brushing past her to go see to some actors who had started fighting in costume backstage.

The stage manager turned back to Jack and Specs and seemed to compose herself. “Sorry. I can just give you some duct tape and if they break again, come see me, okay?”

Specs nodded and accepted the piece of tape offered them. They fixed the glasses that had given them their quirky nickname and put them back on, smiling their thanks and giving a little salute before backing away and leaving.

“Not much for talking, is he?” the stage manager observed, tapping her pencil against her clipboard.

“They,” Jack corrected, watching Specs go. “And no, they usually don’t talk.”

“Any reason why?”

Jack shrugged. “None of my business.” Ever since Specs had come to him the first time, which had been a few weeks ago, Jack had seen hints that might point to Specs living through some sort of traumatic event, leading to selective muteness, but he didn’t know much aside from that.

The stage manager nodded, then cocked her head, apparently listening to something over her headset. “Alright,” she said, speaking into her headset, “we’re doing a full runthrough of Act I in five minutes and if you aren’t onstage in three, I’ll make sure all your mics go out in the middle of your big solos.” She turned to Jack. “That’s your cue, Kelly. Get off my stage and go find some more poor lost puppies to bring in.”

Jack stuck his tongue out at her and hopped off the stage.

After Specs there had been Henry, who just needed a place to lay low for a few hours to hide from his father, and then Blink and Mush, who spent the night in a back room to escape their own separate bad situations.

And then these boys started bringing in friends of their own. Word was quickly starting to spread that if you had shit going on at home or on the streets or anything like that, Medda Larkin would let you in, and Medda Larkin wouldn’t ask questions.

Medda’s theater was a safe place.

~

Sometime around the time Jack turned thirteen, Race returned, and trailing him was a dark kid with shadows under their eyes and a haunted expression on their face. They refused to give a name or even speak, and Race finally relented and told Medda and Jack to just call the kid Romeo.

Romeo sat in the back of the theater and watched rehearsals happen, and they seemed to like it, because they were back the next day. And the next. Soon they became a common sight in the theater. _These are the curtains. These are the seats. And that’s Romeo, our own little phantom, taking up space in the back row of the audience. They’re like an audience member that’s always there. If you want to project your voice, just imagine you’re yelling something to Romeo, all the way back there._

Then Henry brought in a guy named Albert who just needed to get some things in order before leaving again, but he was back a week later with Elmer, who took a liking to the backstage techs and then from then on could usually be found trailing one of the crew members around.

Slowly but surely, the boys became permanent additions to the theater. Elmer took up with the tech crew and began learning how to successfully make a show run. Henry made the sound techs teach him how to work the soundboard, and then most afternoons could be found back in the soundbooth. Mush joined as many productions as it was physically possible to and became their youngest but probably most dedicated actor, and Blink took up helping the light tech so that he could watch Mush perform (Jack still wasn’t sure _exactly_ what was going on with those two, but he wasn’t about to step in the middle of them).

Romeo remained in the back row for the first few months after their arrival, but slowly, they began to move up a row each time, until they were in the front row and leaning forward so as not to miss a thing the actors onstage were saying.

Jack came into the theater every day after school, of course, and behind him came Crutchie and Race and usually Specs, too, who sometimes joined Romeo in whatever row they were taking up that day.

They helped out where they could or even joined the cast for some shows, and what had once been a safe space became so much more. It became a place they could meet up after school to escape their troubles and situations at home and terrible or abusive or absent parents. It became a place full of friends and laughter and life.

And then, somewhere along the way, they became a family. The actors and tech who hadn’t previously known them came to become familiar with “Medda’s boys,” who could be found frequenting the first few rows of the theater seating when they weren’t running around backstage or swapping jokes in the hallway outside the dressing rooms. One of Medda’s boys fixed the mics when they broke, and one of Medda’s boys made the curtains rise for each show. One of Medda’s boys helped work the soundboard, and at least two of Medda’s boys were onstage at any given time.

And then there was the boy who might as well have been Medda’s son, the Latino boy with the cheeky smile and the ratty flannel shirts and rattier converse shoes, who came in every single day without fail and greeted Medda with a kiss on the cheek and a “What can I do today?”

That boy was responsible for all the other boys being here. He was their little pack leader, and the only reason any of the other boys had showed up and then continued coming back was because they trusted his judgement. They trusted him when he told them that Medda was safe, and they grew enough trust in Medda to come back, and bring friends in similar situations to the theater.

To the safe place.

~

When Jack was seventeen, Race failed to show up at the theater one afternoon after school as he normally did, which raised some eyebrows, but Jack brushed them off, saying to give Race time before worrying. Race was a tough guy. He could handle himself.

Jack may have given off the illusion of not caring, but they were his boys, and _dammit_ he worried about them, which is why when Race finally stumbled in the back door of the theater, arm around another guy, keeping him upright, Jack was the first one to jump up and run up the aisle to help them, with Romeo and Mush not far behind him.

“Who’s this, Race?” Romeo asked, as Jack slipped an arm under the guy’s shoulder on the other side, taking some of the pressure off of Race.

“It doesn’t matter,” Race snapped. “He’s busted up and needs help. Where’s Medda?”

Crutchie peeked a head out of the curtains. “On the phone,” he called. “How important…” He trailed off, apparently noticing that Jack and Race were literally _holding this guy up._ “Important,” he decided, and vanished behind the curtains to go get Medda.

“Get the first aid kit, too!” Jack yelled after him.

The guy, it turned out, was Spot Conlon, who was regarded as something of a terror on the streets. Jack had only ever seen him from a distance, and up close, he was a lot… _less scary-looking._ For one thing, he was scrappy and skinny and not all that tall. His face probably would have been fairly attractive if it hadn’t been scratched and bloody and bruised all over. His skin was the color of coffee, but parts of it were mottled a lighter color ( _vitiligo,_ Jack thought, _he’s got vitiligo)_ , and even that was hard to see through all the bruises.

They brought him down to the stage and got him sitting up and speaking full sentences within a few minutes. Crutchie returned with the first aid kit, several ice packs, and Medda, and Spot squinted at Medda.

“Larkin,” he said, pressing one of the ice packs that Crutchie offered him to his swelling eye.

“That would be me.” Medda crossed her arms.

“You own this place?” Spot gestured to the theater all around them. “You take kids in?”

“I provide help where help is needed,” Medda said, “whether that be food, first aid, or a room for the night.”

“What do you charge?” Spot asked. When Medda frowned, not understanding, he lowered the ice pack. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch. What do you want in exchange for your helping me?”

“She doesn’t-” Crutchie began, but Race cut him off.

“We all came to work for her,” he said, looking around at everyone assembled, daring them to contradict what he was saying. None of them did. “We come in after school and help out around the theater.

Spot frowned, obviously not buying it. He looked up at Jack. “Is this true?”

Jack shrugged, which Spot seemed to take as confirmation. “Fine. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Once they had confirmed that none of Spot’s injuries were severe, he left to go attend to something else, exiting the theater with a goodbye to Medda and then Race, and the promise that he would return the next day to cash in his payment. As soon as he was gone, Medda turned to Race, arms folded.

“I don’t charge anything, kiddo,” she said. “You know that.”

Race grinned cheekily. “I know.”

~

Spot showed up in the doorway the next day, arms crossed and scowl on his face, all five feet of him radiating hostility.

“I’m here,” he said, sounding as though he’d rather be anywhere else.

Race, who was sitting on the edge of the stage reading over a script, was the closest responder. “Congrats, man. You made it.” He leaned back and called behind the curtain, “ _Raz! You’ve got someone else to put to work!_ ”

The stage manager came out onto the stage and held up her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring stage lights, squinting out into the house. When she found Spot, she waved at him. “Hello,” she said, much too cheerfully. “Welcome to hell. You’re my next victim. Can you run a light board or fix curtains?”

“That would be a double _no,_ ” Spot said as he made his way down the aisle toward the stage. “What else have you got?”

Raz opened her mouth to answer, but a massive _crash_ from backstage interrupted her. She paused, tilting her head and waiting for something.

Someone screamed, “ _Raz! We need you!”_

She looked back at Spot. “Say, dude, how good are you at yelling? And wrangling people?”

Spot grinned.

“Yelling and herding small children is Spot’s _calling,_ ” Race said from the edge of the stage, and Spot shot a glare at him before looking back at Raz.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked.

Raz tapped her clipboard against her chin, thinking. “Backstage help,” she said, after a few seconds. “Keep everyone quiet, make sure everyone’s where they need to be and no one’s _touching shit they aren’t supposed to be touching._ ”

“Easy enough,” Spot ceded, folding his arms. “I can control a bunch of actors.”

Raz barked out something that sounded like a mix between a laugh and a cry for help. “You say that now, buddy. Just wait until it’s tech week and you’re ready to commit mass homicide.”

 _Tech week?_ Spot mouthed to Race. Race just snorted, looking back down at his script without providing any explanation.

“What makes you think I’m staying until… until _tech week?_ ” Spot asked.

Raz cast him a critical look. “Once you’re in, you’re in for good.”

Race could practically hear the argument on Spot’s lips; surely he had better things to do than help backstage at a community blackbox. But instead of refusing, or scoffing, or storming out, like Race was expecting, Spot shrugged.

“Alright,” he said. “I’m in.”

“Excellent,” said Raz, adjusting her headset with one hand and pointing the clipboard at him with the other. “Come meet the actors you’ll be yelling at.”

And with that, the terror of the East Coast, the king of the streets and the bane of every cop’s existence from here to New Jersey, became a permanent addition to Medda’s theater.

After all, it was a safe place for everyone. Even kings.

~

Just when Jack thought that he had passed along the news of the safehouse to everyone he knew, still more trickled in. Smalls, who he treated like a little sister (and made it clear that the other boys were to do the same), came in one morning before school, when the theater was dark and quiet, and knocked on Medda’s apartment door with a gentle hand mottled with bruises and skinned knuckles.

“My ma don’t want me no more,” Smalls said, shifting from foot to foot in Medda’s kitchen, watching the bathrobed actress preparing a mug of tea for the girl. “Said I’m too much money to keep. Jackie said this was a safe place.” Her eyes darted around the kitchen before coming back to rest on Medda. “That true?”

“Yes, my child,” Medda said, pouring tea into the mug and blowing on it before offering it to Smalls. “Yes, it’s true. This theater, this apartment… they’re both safe places.”

Smalls looked at the mug with a critical eye before accepting it and blowing on it, too. “How safe?”

“Safe as life,” Medda said firmly.

“How long can I stay?” Smalls asked. “Don’t have money to give you, but I can work- I’m strong, and fast.”

“You don’t need to give me any pay,” Medda said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. There are storage rooms in the back of the theater, or you can stay right here in the apartment with me. Do either of those options suit you?”

In the end, Smalls agreed to share the apartment with Medda, but her guilt at not having anything to pay Medda back with was so evident that Medda eventually put her to work in the theater as a stagehand. She took to her tasks with gusto, and her favorite part of her new job was that she got to see most of the boys in her friend group every single day.

Katherine Plumber was drawn to the little found family when she came to the theater to review a show for her paper. She arrived early and sat in the theater seats, watching the bustle of actors and techs and assorted jobless people rushing around, and their chemistry seemed… different than any production team she’d ever seen before.

“There’s something special about your crew,” Katherine said to Medda after the show. “Are they related?”

“Not by blood,” Medda admitted, “but there’s definitely an aspect of family in the blackbox. We’re close here.”

“So I guess you could say you managed to accidentally adopt thirty children?” Katherine asked, a smile playing at her lips.

“Honey,” Medda said with a hearty laugh, “you've got it all wrong. _Th_ _ey_ were the ones who adopted _me._ ”

The next week, an article ran in the paper about Medda Larkin’s blackbox team- the family that found a safe place in the theater, and soon, word was spreading through the streets faster than ever before.

 _Medda’s theater is a safe place._ It was whispered in back alleys and murmured in school hallways, written on notes slipped across desks during class and called out bus windows.

 _Medda’s theater is a safe place._ Anyone who wasn’t comfortable at home, who had a bad situation they were trying to escape from, who just needed the chance to take a break and catch their breath, were welcome at Medda’s theater.

Each day brought more and more kids, some ready to be put to work, some content with sitting in the audience and observing, as Romeo once had. They dove right into the production or hung back, made friends instantly or took a little longer to open up. What mattered was that they were safe here, away from their personal struggles and demons plaguing them. As Medda always cried, loudly and accompanied with her booming laugh, _Where better to escape trouble than a theater?_

And the boy who’d started it all, who’d begun the rumors of a safehouse that were now circulating the roughest parts of the city, where kids needed a safehouse most, watched the new people come in every day. He welcomed broken kids with a smile and a greeting made up of the same words he’d once heard, the same words that had brought him to Medda in the first place, the same words that had probably saved his life.

Medda’s theater was a safe place _._

No, it was more than that.

Medda’s theater was _home._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @to-thc-rcvolution on tumblr come n yell at me there


End file.
